Serpens Veritae
by Inherit dragons
Summary: We all thought that the Death Eaters were evil and Dumbledore was the only one strong enough to oppose them, but things are not always as they seem.
1. Chapter 1

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Chapter 1. Caught In A War

The shops were closed now, their doors securely locked for the night. Rain lashed down on the roofs, canopies, car parks and ground, an ominous warning to anyone who saw it, not only of the cold and wetness of that late autumn evening, but also of the battle raging in what should have been a deserted street. Nevertheless, the fighting continued, each of the two black-robed armies struggling fiercely to overcome the other. Red, green, white, orange and purple lights flew from their wands, momentarily illuminating a window or sign as they flew towards their targets. A small skinny dark-haired boy watched the two groups locked in combat, despair filling his heart and rain dripping down his round glasses, blurring his vision. It was becoming very difficult to distinguish friends from foes now, he realised, taking them off and wiping them yet again. They had to stop soon, he thought desperately as several people fell to the ground, never to rise again.

A whistle blew behind him. He ignored it, anger and sadness coursing through him like poison, numbing him, incapacitating him. He had no desire to listen to the barked orders of Sergeant Weasley now. He was a good man, but far too ambitious. He had failed to realise his manager had gone missing nine months ago, being too intent on enjoying his newfound power to investigate his absence. He had cut himself off from his family because they had disagreed with the Ministry of Magic on account of their legislation against werewolves. Now he was employed by Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, and following his orders to the letter.

The whistle blew again. He sighed and marched reluctantly forward, into the mass of destruction and death. Beside him, he felt Neville trembling and longed to comfort him. He glanced around him. The street was almost pitch-dark. If the streetlights had not been extinguished by Put Outers, he thought, it might have looked almost beautiful. Why had Cornelius Fudge staged the battle here, the boy wondered. Did he have no common sense at all? Twice he had threatened to expel him from school for using magic in a Muggle-inhabited area. Yet he had ordered the Swift Brigade, a regiment of his youngest troops, to fight this battle on a Muggle High Street! The Muggles were sure to notice something had been going on. If the noise of glass breaking, buildings being knocked to the ground and people dying in pain and terror did not arouse their suspicions, the wreckage of their High Street and the corpses lining it would.

Hastily, he pushed the matter from his mind. Incredulous as he was that anyone could possibly neglect to consider such details, it was not worth thinking about now. Whatever he thought about this war or the man planning it did not matter now. After four months of fighting against Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, who never seemed to get tired or injured, it seemed to him that nothing mattered. This was their lot in life now. They were outnumbered, tired, cold and hungry. They stood no chance against their older, more experienced opponents.

With a sigh, he took his glasses off and began cleaning them of rainwater yet again, thinking of the worlds he had left behind. His parents were dead. They would never know he was now an underage soldier fighting against the most feared wizard of all time. He thought of last year, when he had been entered into the Triwizard Tournament and Rita Skeeter, a news reporter for the Daily Prophet, had asked him how they would feel about his competing in the Tournament. At the time, he had been too taken aback to answer, but now it returned to nag at his exhausted mind. How would his parents feel if they knew he was a soldier? Would they be proud of him? Or would they be ashamed of him for not signing up willingly to go into battle? His father had been a fearless man, from what his friends had told him. His godfather, Sirius Black, had often said he had always enjoyed a bit of danger. Was he disappointed in his godson? Was he, even now, staring moodily into the dining room fire in Grimmauld Place or writing a letter to him saying something along the lines of "You're less like your father than I thought. James would've been glad to fight for his friends"?

Or perhaps they and Sirius would be indignant that he had been taken out of school and conscripted into Cornelius Fudge's army. There was no need for him to wonder what Mrs Weasley thought of it. He still had her letter, in which she had promised, one way or another, to get him out of the army, sending Howlers if necessary. With a slight smile, he reached into his bag and touched the leather pouch in which he kept her and Hermione's letters.

Thinking of Hermione made him remember his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first place he could ever recall feeling happy. She would be there, he reminded himself, safe with the other students who hadn't been conscripted, under the protection of Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of the school and a very powerful wizard. Albus Dumbledore would protect the students and keep up their morale. He remembered his second year at Hogwarts when a Basilisk had roamed the school through the pipes, Petrifying students and spreading fear throughout the school. Even when he had been removed from the school by Lucius Malfoy, he had simply said "Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it." Knowing that Hermione was safe in his care was enough of a comfort that the boy was able to stand and rejoin the battle.

He thought of the letters she had written to him. Although she clearly missed him greatly, she was doing everything she could to help those fighting in and affected by the war. Her letters were full of news about her various campaigns. So far, she had organised Pastries For Peace, which involved selling homemade pastries to raise money for the improved education of wizards and other races, so that they would no longer feel the need to go to war, a sponsored silence in honour of fallen troops and a counselling service for those whose relatives had been killed or injured in battle. He admired her commitment and compassion and hoped these projects would be more successful than SPEW, a group she had tried to establish for the benefit of house elves, not realising it was in their nature to serve wizards.

He blinked. A hooded Death Eater was standing a few feet from him. The face of the man was covered by a mask. For several moments, neither the boy nor the man moved or spoke, each watching the other. The man began to speak, but the boy couldn't hear what he was saying. Hearing Neville cry out in pain, he turned to see him collapse, unconscious, a small bruise, the size of a fifty pence piece, on his forehead. Bending to examine him, he remembered how he had bent down and lifted his cousin Dudley and carried him home after his encounter with Dementors, blind, soul-sucking fiends which fed on humans' happy memories. Trying not to think about how the Dursleys had reacted when he had brought Dudley home to them, he Stunned the Death Eater as he raised his wand then, with some difficulty, lifted his friend and prepared to carry him back to their camp.

A stabbing pain in his gut made him double over. He heard a voice shout "Goyle, no!", felt a cold, fuzzy sensation engulf him, then was unaware of anything but swirling blackness which waited hungrily to pull him into its depths, like a group of Grindylows swarming around their victim and pulling the helpless human down into the murky waters they inhabited. The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was a group of young voices calling him, sounding panic-stricken as they shouted. He dimly recognised them as Cedric's, Fred's George's and Cho Chang's. "Harry!" they called urgently. "Stay with us! Harry!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2. Hurt And Hostility

Hermione awoke with a start. Her heart was pounding as she gazed around the moonlit dormitory. Had that really been just a dream, she wondered, shivering as she realised her body was drenched in cold sweat. It had seemed so real, so horribly, frighteningly real. The resigned faces of her friends, no longer rosy with the joy of life at Hogwarts, but pale with fear and fatigue, the light leaving their eyes as they were killed, flashed before her eyes and their dying cries, mingling with those of the Death Eaters, filled her ears as if she were watching it all from the battleground itself.

She glanced at Lavender Brown who slept peacefully in the bed next to her own, a wide smile on her face as she dreamed of a romantic rendezvous with Ron. Hermione envied her. She had always thought her rather a silly girl, more concerned with her love life than her studies. Yet now, as she watched her sleeping so peacefully, she could not help but wonder if it would be more comfortable to live like that, never worrying or having to face life's unpleasant aspects.

After several moments, she kicked off the blankets and hurried from the dormitory. She had to contact Harry. He had not written to her in weeks. He had warned her in every one of his letters that he might not be able to write again, especially in recent weeks, as they drew closer to Lord Voldemort's base, according to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Nevertheless, she needed to hear from him, to reassure herself that he was all right. She sensed, in each letter he wrote, his fear; of facing Voldemort, of what might happen if the Ministry lost the war and of never seeing her again. Now, after almost two months without any word from him, she was beginning to fear the worst. What if he had been killed or worse, captured? Memories of Ernie McMillan's stories; of being taken prisoner by Death Eaters, starved, tortured and forced to perform hard labour ran through her racing mind. She had never truly believed them, but now she was not so sure. She tried not to think about Harry as he might be now; bound, gagged, screaming and writhing in agony as the Death Eaters subjected him to the Cruciatus Curse and other forms of torture.

Finding herself in the library, she began frantically searching for a quill, ink and parchment. If she was going to contact him, it would have to be by way of a letter. The Ministry of Magic were watching the Floo network. She could not leave Hogwarts and she had no idea where he was, as soldiers were forbidden to reveal their location in their rare letters. An owl would probably know where he was, though, she thought, remembering how Hedwig had always managed to find her, even though she had never, as far as she knew, given Harry her address.

Pausing in front of the desk at which she had been working earlier that afternoon, she saw the book she had left open yesterday, hoping she could come back to it after dinner. Resisting the temptation to begin reading and get some work done before morning, she continued her determined search for a quill, ink and parchment. Even if she didn't get a reply, she had to write to him. She missed him so much it was as if she had an open wound which smarted every second of the day. He had been her friend since her first year at Hogwarts. He was so brave and yet so modest that she never ceased to admire him. He never judged anyone for what they were, even if they were half-giant or Muggle-born, things which seemed to matter a great deal to other witches and wizards. Also, although it made her feel awkward to admit it, even to herself, he was very handsome in her opinion. His dark and untidy hair, combined with his pale skin, gave him an air of mystery. His bright green eyes were always filled with determination and gentle compassion, which she had never seen in the eyes of Professor Dumbledore.

Unable to find what she was looking for, she sat down at the desk and began reading. She sighed softly, remembering all the hard work she had had to do before Professor McGonagal would give her a signed note allowing her to borrow this book from the Restricted Section; catching thirty mice for a Transfiguration lesson, cleaning Professor Flitwick's office, which had been quite a hair-raising task on account of the four hundred and twenty-eight security spells he had placed around the room, repairing Professor Sinstra's broken telescopes, assisting Professor Baldwin, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher to capture a Red Cap, a troll and a vampire, helping Professor Sprout to repot Mandrakes, prune the Whomping Willow and get rid of an infestation of Flesh-Eating Slugs, feeding Fire Crabs, tending a sick Manticore, guiding a group of Blast-Ended Skrewts away from the pumpkin patch and appeasing an angry Bowtruckle. It had been a very difficult few days and she still had many of the injuries she had sustained from these jobs, but it was worth it, she thought. This book was very easy to read and more useful than she could ever have imagined, though why it was in the Restricted Section, she would never know.

"Miss?" Hermione jumped at the sound of the high-pitched voice and hastily closed the book before turning to see who had interrupted her study. To her relief, it was Dobby, a house elf who admired Harry deeply. He would understand her situation. Perhaps he would help her. As he noticed the book in her hands, his eyes widened.

"Of Lions, Serpents, Eagles and Badgers - A History of Hogwarts' Founders!" he gasped. "Dobby had thought all the copies of that book had been destroyed, Miss!" He took the book in his shaking hands, his huge green eyes wide with amazed excitement, and opened it. Hermione watched him, struggling to remain patient. She had no desire to upset him by seeming brusque, but she was desperate to contact Harry. Taking a deep breath, she strained her tired mind to think of the right words.

"Dobby," she began. Dobby looked up guiltily from his reading. "Dobby is sorry, Miss," he squeaked. "It's just... Dobby has not seen a copy of this book since..." He stopped abruptly, looking terrified. Suddenly he began hitting himself hard on the head with the book, shouting, "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" Hermione snatched the book from him, startled. Somewhere above her, a floorboard creaked. She held her breath, her heart pounding, in case the thumping and yelling had woken anyone in the school.

Hearing nothing, she relaxed and turned to the panic-stricken elf. "Are you all right?" she asked, concerned in case he had hurt himself. Dobby nodded, glancing around the library apprehensively. "Dobby had to punish himself," he explained. "Dobby almost revealed one of his master's secrets." Hermione heard this with appalled curiosity. What secret had he been so afraid to reveal, she wondered, anger and a strange sense of foreboding rising in her heart and mind. What master would be so cruel as to order his house elves to punish themselves and inflict such fear on them?

Deciding it would be best to change the subject, she asked, "Dobby, could you please fetch me a quill, some ink and some parchment?" Dobby nodded and hurried away to find what she had asked for. Hermione watched him go, a spark of hope blossoming in her chest. Soon, she told herself, she would be able to write to Harry. She smiled, imagining his expression when he read through her letter, then fell to reading Of Lions, Serpents, Eagles and Badgers, taking mental notes as she went.

After several moments, the house elf returned, carrying a goose feather quill, a bottle of black ink, a candle in a little brass stand and three rolls of parchment. "Is this enough, Miss?" he asked, indicating the parchment. "Yes, thank you," replied Hermione, smiling at him. It pained her, the way he addressed her as Miss, as if she were in some way superior to him. All creatures should be equal, she thought, all with the right to voice their opinions and be acknowledged. That was what Harry would have wanted too, she told herself, despite his appearing to agree with Ron on the subject of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.

Anger filled her mind as she thought of Ron. Since Harry's conscription into the war, which the Daily Prophet had said would be over by Christmas, he had constantly pestered her, asking her if she had a boyfriend whenever they were in the company of other students, trying to read her mail when she got any, becoming sullen and hostile if she became occupied with any activity which did not involve him and sometimes even attempting to kiss her. It was as if he were taking advantage of Harry's disappearance to steal what was rightfully his, like a tomb raider using the occasion of a rich man's demise to make some quick money. The thought that he could do this while claiming to be Harry's best friend, made her so sad and ill she felt like crying and so angry she wanted to pummel him with both fists and every curse she knew. So, although it was rude, she had taken to ignoring him. It was better that way. That way, no one got hurt.

Putting Ron firmly out of her mind, she began writing her letter to Harry, unburdening her heart as she did. When the candle began burning low, Dobby quickly replaced it without a word. No conversation was necessary between them. Hermione knew he understood what she was going through and that he too was missing Harry. It would be painful for both of them to talk about him. So they sat in companionable silence until the first light of dawn cut the blackness of the night like a knife piercing flesh.

As the sun rose, its rays reaching through the windows of the library like long thin white fingers trying to snatch her away, Hermione sighed and folded her letter. "Dobby must go back to the kitchen before he is missed!" squeaked Dobby, vanishing with a crack like a whip. "Good-day, Miss." Once he was gone, Hermione hurried up the marble staircase to Gryffindor Tower, stowing her letter in the pocket of her dressing gown as she went. If anyone caught her with a letter to Harry, she would be dealt with most severely, as Professor Baldwin often reminded the students. Hermione did not know what was meant by this, but was certain it could not involve anything worse than a detention. All the same, she had no desire to get into trouble for breaking one of the new rules, ridiculous as she often thought they were.

Since the term had begun, students' mail was read thoroughly to ensure that no one was in contact with any of those fighting in the war. This was to prevent either party from suffering unnecessary and distracting sadness or anxiety. The consequences for anyone found to be corresponding with a soldier on either side of the war would be very unpleasant, they were often warned. So, although many of the Hogwarts students had friends and relations who were fighting, few of whom agreed with the explanation they were given for this rule, no one dared to disobey it.

Twice a week, the students were required to assemble for an inspection. On these mornings, they were roused earlier than usual and would have to file outside to where Ministry officials would examine their physical health, strength, wands, thoughts, the condition of their clothes and a lot of other things. Apparently this was part of an agreement between Dumbledore and the Minister for Magic to prevent him from trying to take over Hogwarts again. While most of the students resented having to wake up so early and submit to the scrutiny of strangers, they all remembered Cornelius Fudge's attempt to usurp Dumbledore's power through his senior undersecretary Dolores Jane Umbridge and how she had made life at Hogwarts quite unbearable for all students who were not from the house of Slytherin. As almost no one wanted her back, this rule too was readily obeyed.

Once she was dressed, she grabbed her bag and hurried down the marble staircase towards the Great Hall. Other Gryffindor girls and boys soon joined her, some yawning as they went, others immersed in conversation. Hermione groaned inwardly as she noticed Ron making a beeline for her, his flaming red hair clearly visible in the sea of heads. Lavender Brown followed closely behind him, she noted with a surge of vindictive pleasure. Lavender might be infatuated with Ron, for reasons Hermione could not understand, but Ron did not seem to reciprocate her feelings. This might have been due to her habit of calling him Ron-Won whenever she addressed him, which he often complained annoyed him. Or perhaps her tendency to kiss him whenever he was near her had repulsed him. He was not, after all, as mature and able to appreciate others' feelings as Harry.

"Hi Hermione," Ron began, an inane grin on his freckled face. "Hi," replied Hermione, avoiding his gaze. Ron stepped closer, his arms outstretched, preparing to grab her and take possession of her. Hermione stepped sharply back. No magic was allowed outside of classes, she reminded herself. Anyway, she was a Prefect now. She must control her temper. She must set an example to younger students. Hastily, she thought of Harry. What would he do, she asked herself.

"Excuse me," interrupted a timid little voice. Feeling as if she would quite like to hug whoever had saved her from Ron, Hermione turned. A small blonde-haired girl from Hufflepuff stood behind her on the marble staircase. Recognising her as Melissa Diggory, Cedric's younger sister, she was filled with concern. Melissa was one of the most frequent patients of the counselling service she had established. The conscription of her brother had affected her very badly. Her once golden locks hung limply on either side of her pale face. There were dark shadows under her bloodshot blue eyes.

"Hello Melissa," she began kindly, hoping the little girl couldn't see Ron, who was looking daggers at her. "How are you today?" Melissa swallowed hard and produced a copy of the Daily Prophet, her eyes brimming with tears. "They attacked Tewksbury High Street," she whispered hoarsely. "Cedric was there. I need a way to see him, in case he's..." She broke off, covering her face with her hands as she dissolved into silent weeping. Ron snorted. Hermione longed to kick him in his thin shins, but knew that would do no good.

She gazed at Melissa, wishing for the words to comfort this poor girl. She was only eleven. Hermione herself did not understand the reason for the war, so what chance did an eleven-year-old have? Besides, Cedric was her brother. Hermione knew what it was like to know a loved one was fighting. After all, she loved Harry and was sure he loved her too. She had spent many a sleepless night worrying about what might be happening to him. How much worse it would be, she thought, if that had been her brother, who had grown up with her, teaching, advising and supporting her for as long as she could remember? Poor Melissa!

The silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time. Hermione could sense Ron's growing impatience and Melissa's apprehension. This was not good for such a young girl, who had already been through so much. On top of it all, she was only in her first year at Hogwarts, which was not the welcoming place it had once been. Hermione had to do something quickly.

"I'm sorry to hear about Cedric," she began earnestly. "He really means a lot to you." She wanted to reassure the younger girl, perhaps reminding her of her brother's bravery and strength before finishing with a remark like "Nothing can hurt him. He'll be fine." However, she knew that would be wrong. She knew almost nothing about Cedric, except that he had beaten Harry at Quidditch once, but believed strongly in fair play. Besides, even with what information she had gleaned from Harry's letters, she did not know much about the war. Many had died fighting and there was no knowing who would survive each battle and who would not be so lucky. Anyway, who was she to make such claims? She couldn't predict the future. She had hoped, when she had taken Divination as a school subject, that she would learn to see the future accurately. However, as time had passed and Professor Trelawney had done nothing but make overly dramatised predictions of Harry's early and grisly death, she had given up that hope. She would just have to wait until tonight and help Melissa to fully express her fear if she turned up at the nightly counselling sessions, which she usually did.

When at last she reached the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, she sat as far away from Ron as she could and helped herself to toast with liberal amounts of strawberry jam. Today she had Charms, followed by Potions, History of Magic and Transfiguration. She needed all the strength she could get. Looking up from her food to pour herself some orange juice, she noticed Draco Malfoy was not at the Slytherin table. Pansy Parkinson sat beside his usual place, her head in her hands, as if she were crying and did not want anyone to know. Goyle sat next to her, murmuring something to her while clumsily patting her arm. Despite the many bad encounters she had had with Slytherin students, she could not help wondering what was wrong. Pansy Parkinson had never really seemed to care about anything or anyone, except Malfoy. Did her crying have something to do with his absence, she thought with a sudden surge of concern.

Once she had finished her breakfast, she hurried back upstairs and towards the large classroom in which Charms lessons took place. Today they would be revising Hover Charms, she reminded herself. While she had not expected to learn those until her seventh year at Hogwarts, she was certainly not about to complain. Learning was, in her opinion, the most enjoyable and rewarding activity in the world, apart from helping others and, of course, spending time with Harry. In any case, Hover Charms might be very useful in fighting their enemies.

As she had during breakfast, she sat as far away from Ron as possible. He tried to slip into the seat next to her, but Angelina Johnson got there first. Hermione turned to Angelina, wanting to thank her, but, before she could, Professor Flitwick entered the classroom, dressed in green robes which reminded Hermione strongly of a frog or grasshopper. In his hands was a wooden box. Inside were the white mice they would be causing to hover today.

"Today we will be practicing the incantation for a Hover Charm," announced Professor Flitwick squeakily. "During this lesson, I advise you to remain in your seats and not move about too much. I must also ask you all not to say the words too loudly." Everyone except Hermione stared at him and at each other. Usually, Professor Flitwick was easily the most relaxed teacher in Hogwarts. If he was now setting these rules in his lesson, they must be doing something very complex or potentially dangerous. As the mice were distributed amongst the students, no one moved or spoke. A chill of excitement shot through every student.

As the lesson continued, Hermione found herself relaxing. She understood well enough why Professor Flitwick had reminded them of the rules regarding Hover Charms. In all their previous lessons on this spell, at least one student, while getting up to retrieve their runaway mice, would be accidentally hit by someone else's badly-aimed enchantment. This accident, while funny for the students, annoyed Professor Flitwick, as it disrupted the lesson. Aside from this, so many students had sustained head injuries due to collisions with the chandelier, from egg-sized lumps to minor concussion, that Madame Pomfrey had had a long angry conversation with him. He had instructed them to keep their voices down while saying the spell because it was an ancient and complex piece of magic which caused different effects depending on how loudly it was uttered. She had no intention of getting up now, she thought, using a simple Immobilising Charm to hold her mouse in place before whispering the enchantment.

Soon she fell to pondering the events of the morning. Why had Dobby felt the need to punish himself? What secret could seeing a book possibly have caused him to almost let slip? Why had Pansy been crying? Where was Draco Malfoy? And, most importantly to Hermione, where was Harry? Was he injured? Was he even alive, she wondered, shivering and blinking back the tears which pricked at her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks for all to see.

A scream, followed by a sigh, brought her back to the present. Ron was dangling from the ceiling, his head repeatedly striking the now damaged chandelier. Some students were laughing, while others looked grim. Professor Flitwick was muttering exasperatedly to himself as he returned Ron to his seat with a wave of his wand. Through it all, Ron continued to grin stupidly. Hermione sighed silently, sharing her teacher's frustration. As Ron noticed her and began trying to catch her eye, Hermione fell to thinking of Harry and wishing he were here with her.

After the Charms lesson, the Gryffindors in Hermione and Ron's year had Potions. Since the term had begun, Hermione had come to dread Potions lessons. Professor Snape had never been particularly kind to Gryffindor students, but now it was as if he blamed them for the war. In previous years, he had, by and large, stuck to making waspish remarks about the standard of their potion brewing or written work, but these days he seemed to be looking for any excuse to punish them. He usually reduced at least one person to tears or terror by the end of each lesson and, if anyone from Gryffindor sustained an injury, he would turn a blind eye to it, while blaming and penalising the Gryffindors for any wounds he saw on the Slytherins.

With every step she took towards the dungeon where these lessons took place, the temperature dropped and so did her spirits. Harry had never liked Potions lessons and now, she had to admit, she felt the same. As she lined up outside the room with her fellow Gryffindors and the Slytherins, she noticed Malfoy was not among them. Goyle looked worried and had one arm around Pansy, whose eyes were red and puffy from crying. Crabbe's eyes were red too and he wore a black armband, the symbol of mourning. Had Malfoy died, wondered Hermione anxiously. How could he have? Although she had never been fond of him, the thought of anyone dying before reaching adulthood was too awful to contemplate.

"Good afternoon," intoned Professor Snape as calmly as usual. The class mumbled in response and followed him into the dungeon, Pansy giving Crabbe's hand a comforting squeeze. Hermione made her way to the back of the room, not wanting Snape to start bullying her too soon. She had almost reached her seat when she felt something smash over her head. Caught by surprise, she fell to the ground. Hot liquid soaked her robes, hair and face. Something warm was trickling into her hair and she felt shards of glass embed themselves into her skin.

Dazed and riddled with pain, Hermione swayed and groped around in the semi-darkness for something to lean on. She saw Millicent Bulstrode, the Slytherin girl she had been paired with during the first and only session of Gilderoy Lockhart's duelling club, glaring at her, hatred blazing in her eyes, and realised she had thrown the bottle now lying in glittering green shreds at Hermione's feet. She glanced at the enormous girl, then dropped her gaze, wondering why she had attacked her, why she hated her so much.

Her vision was flickering now. The other students slipped in and out of focus. She heard Professor Snape speaking softly to Crabbe, who looked relieved and left the room. She felt someone pulling the glass shards out of her, taking her arm and half-carrying, half-guiding her. She was dimly aware that she and her mysterious guide were moving and tried to walk, but it hurt too much. She saw a door and a set of steps, then a wave of cold blackness engulfed her and she knew no more.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3. A Dark Mystery

Excruciating pain searing through Harry's head jolted him into wakefulness. Wincing, he became aware of someone tying a strip of cloth to his left foot. Something hard was pressing against it. As he opened his eyes, hoping they were not watering as much as he thought, he noticed a familiar-looking bald head with bat-like ears and small malevolent eyes. It was Kreacher, Sirius' house elf, he realised. But what was he doing here? Come to think of it, where were they?

"It is good to see you have awakened, Master Potter," wheezed Kreacher with a low mocking bow. "Kreacher was most afraid that you would not." Then, in an audible whisper, he muttered darkly, "Kreacher has never seen any human sleep for so long! If Mistress knew of the laziness prevailing in this country, how angry she would be! How she would cry! She and Master worked so tirelessly to eradicate this sort of scum!" Not knowing what to say, Harry made to stand. His foot exploded with agony, combining with his smarting scar.

"Be careful, Master Potter," sneered Kreacher. "You may do yourself injury." Harry ignored him and stared around, wondering where he was. His vision was blurred, as his glasses were missing, but he could see green fabric around and above him. He must be in a tent, he realised. How had he ended up here?

Trying not to put too much weight on his injured foot, he made his way out into the cold morning air. He saw more green tents, black-robed figures darting among them. Were they fellow members of the Swift Brigade, he thought, hesitating. If they were, what were they doing here? He remembered the battle in Tewksbury High Street and being hit by a curse which had knocked him out. He must have been captured, he realised. The Swift Brigade and other soldiers fighting for the Ministry for Magic slept in red tents. This must be the Death Eaters' camp.

His scar gave a particularly painful twinge and his leg gave way. As he stumbled, half-blind with the pain, catching himself before he hit the ground, he realised with dread that Neville must be here too. He had to help him before the Death Eaters could subject him to the Cruciatus Curse, or worse.

"Stupefy!" Harry jumped aside just in time to avoid the jet of red light. He heard a man curse and another hiss testily, "Were you listening at all this morning? The Dark Lord ordered us not to use magic unless it was absolutely necessary! And where are his glasses? If I find you have hidden..." "I had to take precautions!" retorted the other. "These are young supporters of Fudge! They may attack at any moment!" The man who had spoken before snorted.

"Are you really saying you cannot handle a wandless teenager alone, Wormtail?" he scoffed. The other man blushed and said nothing. The one who wasn't Wormtail now turned his attention to Harry, who had been trying to edge away. "Don't even think about it!" he growled. "Your forces were defeated in the last battle. Your foolish Minister should have thought better of sending underage wizards to fight his cause. You should know that the Dark Lord does not take kindly to those who oppose the rights of his people. If you try to escape this camp, you will suffer pain beyond anything you have yet experienced. If you try to send information to our enemies, you will be handed over to the Dementors. If you attack anyone here, you will die horribly. Do I make myself clear?" Harry nodded, bracing himself for whatever this Death Eater might do next.

"It would seem, Master Crabbe, that you have also forgotten the Dark Lord's instructions," sneered Kreacher, darting his hand into Wormtail's pocket and pulling out Harry's glasses. "We must not stoop to the level of our enemies. That means we must not threaten his supporters if we can avoid it." Then, without another word, he led Harry back to the tent in which he had awoken before handing Harry's glasses back to him. "Thanks," murmured Harry, surprised at the elf's kindness. Kreacher nodded in acknowledgement, then said, "Do not try that again. Kreacher has heard of your encounters with Dementors and hopes that you will not have to face them yet."

Harry's blood ran cold. He would never forget his third year at Hogwarts, when the Ministry had ordered all entrances to the school to be guarded by Dementors and how every time he had encountered them, he would hear the pleading cries of his mother as she had tried to save him from being killed by Lord Voldemort. Surely there were no Dementors here? They were all in Azkaban, weren't they? Then he remembered Dumbledore's prediction that the Dementors would soon work for Lord Voldemort, he being better able to give them what they desired than the Ministry ever could. Had it already happened, he wondered with dread.

Putting this from his mind, he turned his attention to recent events. He had been taken as a prisoner of war by the Death Eaters, but Lord Voldemort had apparently ordered them not to use magic or threats when dealing with him. This didn't tally with Harry's past dealings with Voldemort and his supporters. Whenever he had previously encountered them, they had tried to kill him. Why was Voldemort now forbidding the Death Eaters to threaten or use magic against him?

Kreacher was here and seemed to be helping Harry. Again this was very different to his first impressions. When they had first met at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had been the hostile and unwilling servant of Sirius Black, but now he was here in this camp and was speaking comparatively civilly to him. Come to think of it, where was Sirius? Harry had not heard from him for months.

The sound of rustling, as though something with enormous wings were approaching, brought Harry back to the present. Kreacher ran to the tent flap and raised it to reveal none other than Lucius Malfoy. He was sitting in a brown chair with silver wings. He looked thinner and paler than Harry remembered. His grey eyes were bloodshot and there were dark shadows under them. His black robes appeared to be too large for his emaciated frame. He studied Harry critically for several moments, then returned his attention to Kreacher, who bowed so low that the end of his long nose touched the ground. "Bellatrix Lestrange is looking for you," he informed the house elf, who promptly hurried away without so much as a backward glance at Harry.

At last, he spoke, breaking the awkward silence. "I apologise most sincerely on behalf of my comrades, Crabbe and Wormtail, for the events of this morning," he murmured once the niceties had been awkwardly exchanged. Harry remained silent, not knowing what to say. It seemed strange,to say the least, to hear a Death Eater, let alone the father of his arch-enemy, apologising to him. Nevertheless, he kept his expression blank, wondering what the man would do next.

Kreacher raced through the Death Eaters' camp, pausing outside Voldemort's tent to pay his respects to the statue of Salazar Slytherin's mother. His heart was racing. Harry Potter, the boy Dumbledore had so carefully prepared to fulfil his plans, had been captured! The Death Eaters might win the war after all and then he could join his true lord and master, Voldemort. Sirius Black would not even notice. He was far too busy to notice a lowly house-elf like him.

A wave of sadness washed over him, but he pushed it away. It was not right that he should indulge in such a worthless emotion. He must concentrate on serving Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort, whilst doing whatever he could to ensure his master won the war. Right now, he must spread the word that Harry Potter had been captured. Ignoring his aching bones and shortage of breath, he ran on, shouting the message at the top of his wheezy voice.

Neville turned over, yawned and opened his eyes. Above him was green fabric. Where on earth was he, he wondered. A cold gust of wind made the material ripple. He shivered and realised he was in a tent. Closing his eyes once more, he strained his memory, trying to remember what had happened the previous night and work out how he had ended up here. After a long while, he sighed and gave up.

Beside him, someone sighed and shuffled their feet impatiently. Sitting up apprehensively, he let out an involuntary gasp of terror as the pale morning light illuminated the woman of his nightmares. She was exactly as his grandmother had described her; tall and slender with heavy-lidded eyes and long black hair which framed her waxen face. As he gazed into her disdainful eyes, he remembered his grandmother telling him about how this woman and her husband had tortured his parents and his blood ran cold. Now he was alone with Lord Voldemort's most faithful supporter, Bellatrix Lestrange.

"He lives!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart in feigned relief. Then, her voice hard and cold, she hissed, "You have slept for long enough, Private. If you do not get up in ten seconds, you will suffer." Neville scrambled out of bed, quickly becoming entangled in the rough blankets as he struggled to stand quickly. As he did, he realised his wand was missing. He was defenceless.

"Where's Harry?" he asked, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. He remembered seeing a jet of violet light hit Harry in the gut and wondered with dread whether he had been captured as well or killed in action. It was unclear to him which was worse. But then, he reasoned, he wasn't Harry. Harry wouldn't think like that. He was brave and cared more about saving his friends than defending himself. How Neville wished he could be like him!

A slight smile crossed Bellatrix's face and she chuckled, making Neville shiver. "Starting early, are you?" she remarked. Neville stared at her in bewilderment, wondering what she meant by this, but not daring to ask. Yet, as he watched her toying with a loose thread in her robes, it occurred to him that she was waiting for something, expecting him to do something. But what? He watched her hands fearfully, trying to calculate the distance between them and her wand.

The silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time. Just as Neville gave himself up for lost, the tent flap was opened and in rushed a very excited old house-elf dressed in nothing but a loincloth. Its eyes were full of adoration as it gazed upon the witch towering over it. Bellatrix turned away from him and began addressing the elf.

"Kreacher, what news?" she asked. "I want the full report." "Yes, Mistress Bellatrix," wheezed the house elf. Bellatrix sighed. "Don't bother with the flattery," she told him shortly. "Just give me the report. I will be making an inspection later, by order of the Dark Lord, and if you have missed anything out of your account, he won't be impressed." "Yes, Mistress," replied the elf. "But how, if I may be so bold, will you be able to make an inspection while dealing with him?" He glared malevolently in Neville's direction.

Neville blushed and bit his lip. He was used to being told, in a great many ways, that he was not good at very much. He had come to accept it as his fate to be reprimanded, ridiculed and left out of things, but this was almost overwhelming. The only person who had ever thought highly of him, apart from Professor Sprout, had been taken from him, perhaps even from the world of the living. Nevertheless, he must not cry here, he told himself. That would only make him even more of a sitting target than he already was. He must face his fears.

Hearing Harry's name, he pricked up his ears. He had been captured, the house elf called Kreacher was telling Bellatrix. He was safe, but his foot was broken, due to an awkward fall resulting from a curse Goyle had thrown at him. Concern for his friend gnawed at his innards and he strained to remember what Hermione had taught him about the best way to heal a broken leg with magic.

"Thank you, Kreacher," intoned Bellatrix Lestrange, breaking Neville's train of thought. With a silent sigh, he opened his eyes just in time to see Kreacher exiting the tent. He caught a brief glimpse of the camp outside, a vast expanse of green dotted with moss-green tents, before the tent flap flopped back into place, plunging him back into the darkness of his childhood nightmare. He turned his attention back to the witch in whose presence he had awoken, dreading what would soon become of him.

"I suppose we had better start from the beginning," she began when the silence had, once again, become uncomfortable for them. "What do you mean?" stammered Neville, his mind filling with a thousand awful possibilities of what she might do to him now. He remembered his parents, driven to insanity by the torture she had subjected them to. Would he end up like them, he wondered fearfully.

Bellatrix Lestrange sighed. "Well," she began. "I suppose you know the reason you are here?" Neville hesitated. How should he answer that, he wondered. If he gave the response on his mind, the one he was sure she was expecting, she might become angry and decide to subject him to the Cruciatus curse. Besides, he could not be certain that she would tell him the truth. She was, after all, working for Lord Voldemort, his enemy.

Apparently she read his thoughts. "Speak your mind," she told him encouragingly. Neville hesitated, then, mustering all his courage, he said, "No." He may not have known her intentions, but one thing was perfectly clear to him. He must not let this Death Eater frighten him. Only by staying calm and focusing on what really mattered would he escape alive.

"You are here to learn," replied Bellatrix smoothly. "You will understand later." As Neville began anxiously wondering how safe his friend was in the clutches of Death Eaters, a scream and the sound of running footsteps was heard somewhere outside the tent. Bellatrix sighed and Disapparated, leaving Neville staring after her, bewildered and afraid. Who had been screaming, he wondered. The voice had belonged to a woman. He knew that much. But who could be here, in the Death Eaters' prisoner of war camp, as he assumed this must be, fleeing and crying out in such terror? Who or what were they running rom? Why had Bellatrix vanished upon hearing the scream? He wondered about these things and more as he sat in the tent, too afraid to try escaping, dreading the moment when he would have to face his enemies again.

Harry ran to keep up with Lucius Malfoy, amazed at the speed of his winged chair. As he panted for breath, he tried to concentrate on what the man was saying while taking in everything around him. The camp stretched as far as the eye could see and, according to Lucius, had two levels; the upper level, where they were now, and an underground level, where important meetings took place. The entire camp was set up on a hill. The Death Eaters resided on the high ground, "where constant vigilance is possible," Malfoy informed him. "I am sure you, of all people, understand that." At these words, Harry was strongly reminded of last year, when Defence Against the Dark Arts classes had been taught by Barty Crouch's son, who had been posing as the renowned Auror Mad-Eye Moody. Moody himself had retired from the Ministry for Magic when he had become too paranoid by their reckoning and the imposter who had taken his new position as a teacher at Hogwarts had spent the better part of six months telling Harry to watch out for attackers with the shouted words "Constant vigilance!"

At the entrance to each tent was a gigantic statue of a green snake. Why was that, wondered Harry, but decided not to ask. Right now, he thought, it was best to concentrate on learning his way around. If he was ever going to stand a chance of escaping, he'd better know the level of security surrounding the place. Where was his wand, he thought, trying to keep calm. He would not be able to resist the Death Eaters without his wand, especially if Voldemort was here, which, Harry reminded himself, he probably was. But if he was here, where would he be? Were there really Dementors here? Harry hoped not. Voldemort was a dangerous enemy and it was very risky, not to mention difficult, to fight a Dementor. The thought of both being in the same place, was terrifying. The possibility of their forming an alliance was too awful to imagine.

"All right up there, Edward?" called a familiar voice. Harry jumped, jolted out of his thoughts by the voice of the man standing before them. "Well enough, thank you, Wallace," replied Malfoy, tapping his chair with his wand and causing it to descend, so that his eyes were level with the man's. Harry felt his muscles tense as he recognised Macnair, the man who had tried to kill Buckbeak, a Hippogriff now living in the care of Sirius Black at Grimmauld Place. He remembered seeing this man in his third year, his tall, strapping figure making Harry suddenly aware of how thin and weak Lucius Malfoy looked. The thin moustache he had sported when Harry had last seen him had thickened and developed into a full black beard. The change made him almost unrecognisable, but suited him a lot better, in Harry's opinion.

At that moment, Macnair noticed Harry. "Ah, I see you've taken on the job of educating the young fudge fleas," he remarked. Lucius Malfoy frowned at him. "Wallace," he rebuked him. "How many times must I tell you? We must not use that term any longer! It is disrespectful and contrary to the Dark Lord's plans!" As Macnair apologised, Harry's mind filled with questions. What was Lord Voldemort planning? Why were the Death Eaters not threatening and insulting him and his comrades, as they usually did? Could it have something to do with the war, he wondered as he followed Malfoy through the camp, noticing how simple the Death Eaters' living quarters were. He remembered from past meetings that Malfoy was very wealthy and was sure at least some of the Death Eaters were too. Why were they living in such basic accommodation? One way or another, he told himself, he would find out and use the information he gleaned to bring an end to the war.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4. Unlikely Allies

Hermione sat up slowly, dreading the pain which would course through her body as she moved. To her surprise and relief, she felt none. Madame Pomfrey must have cured her of whatever that potion had done to her. Looking around, she realised she was in the hospital wing. The rich scent of hot gravy hung tantalisingly in the air, making her stomach rumble hungrily. Through the window on her left, she saw that the sky was dark. How long had she been unconscious, she wondered anxiously.

As she lay back, feeling dizzy, the outlines of several people entered her vision. A mass of red hair told her Ron was nearby and she groaned inwardly. The last thing she needed now was a confrontation with him. Trying to avoid his eye, she squinted at the other figures, wondering who they were.

"Hermione?" It was Angelina Johnson. She sounded worried. As her eyes focused and adjusted to the darkness, Hermione realised she was holding a stack of parchment, some Chocolate Frogs and a steaming plate of shepherd's pie. That explained the smell of gravy, thought Hermione as her stomach growled again. Surprise overcame her fatigue. Until the war had broken out, she had never had much to say to Angelina Johnson. She had been sure Angelina was a good-natured, friendly and kindhearted girl, but her main interest was Quidditch, something Hermione could not understand. Now, however, she seemed to seize any opportunity to be with Hermione. It was as if she had unofficially adopted her as a sister. Hermione didn't mind. Being with Angelina helped to take her mind off the sadness and worry she constantly felt since Harry had gone to war.

"Hi Angelina," she replied hoarsely. "How are you?" She eyed the parchment hopefully. Could it be a response from Harry, she wondered, her heart doing a somersault in her chest. She had not been able to send her letter to him that morning. Had Angelina found it and sent it? If she had, she might get into trouble. Fear and admiration for her, combined with a surge of guilt, coursed through her body, making her stomach churn uncomfortably. Angelina had already helped her many times. It would be selfish to let her take the punishment for sending her forbidden letter, she thought.

"Fine," shrugged Angelina. "How are you? Professor McGonagal was really worried when you didn't turn up for class. I explained about Bulstrode and the Splitting Solution and she sent you this." She handed her the parchment and Hermione saw that it was the notes for that day's Transfiguration lesson. At the same moment, she became aware of more parchment in her pocket. Her letter had not been sent. A lump of disappointment burned in her throat. She ought to have known she wouldn't get a reply so soon, she thought. She hadn't been able to send her letter and why would Angelina Johnson risk a terrible punishment for someone she had not really spoken to until recently? She was being silly and self-centred, indulging in such hopes. Harry was in a battle, not on a cruise in a faraway holiday resort. She sighed.

"You're not in trouble," Angelina assured her, misinterpreting her sigh. "McGonagal understands. She said today that the war was something that would affect every wizard and that, if we're too anxious to go to class or do homework, she'll understand." She gave her a sympathetic smile and handed over the rest of her load. "Thanks," murmured Hermione, picking up the spoon Angelina had placed on the plate and beginning to eat.

As her spirits were revived by the hot food, Hermione noticed Melissa Diggory, Ginny Weasley and several other frequenters of her counselling service. She could make out other figures in the shadows being shooed away by Madame Pomfrey. Who were they, she wondered. Why was Madame Pomfrey sending them away from the hospital wing? She never usually denied students medical treatment or the chance to visit their sick or injured friends. She sounded angry as she spoke to the rapidly retreating figures, her tone harsh and cutting.

For several moments, Hermione conversed with her visitors, comforting those who were upset or worried, relaying the events of that morning to anyone who asked to hear her story and ignoring Ron, who soon began to sulk. "She's just brooding over her boyfriend and skiving off lessons," he muttered loudly before storming away. No one took any notice of him. All eyes were on Hermione, who felt very awkward, but relieved by the attention. Having to keep talking to these people kept her mind from contemplating the awful things which might be happening to Harry now.

All too soon, Madame Pomfrey chivvied them away, saying the patient needed rest. Hermione watched them go, Madame Pomfrey taking her empty plate, then lay back with a sad, exhausted sigh. She had awoken feeling so hopeful, but now she was injured, missing Harry, afraid for him and thinking of all the things she had failed to do. She had not sent Harry a letter. She had not attended Transfiguration. She had not been there for those who needed her. She had failed. "I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered into the darkness. "Sorry."

A groan made her look around. It was a boy's voice. He sounded tired, frustrated and in pain. Who could be suffering so badly, wondered Hermione. Why was no one helping him? She glanced around, searching for Madame Pomfrey, but she was now in her study. With another sigh, Hermione looked again at the boy and gasped as she saw him properly. It was Draco Malfoy.

He looked terrible, his face even paler than usual, two red spots in his cheeks. His grey eyes were watering, his skin clammy. He seemed to be trembling for some reason. Was he shivering with cold? This was unlikely, as it was always warm in the hospital wing. Was he frightened then, wondered Hermione, then dismissed the thought. There was nothing to be afraid of here in the hospital wing, unless Malfoy had a fear of the dark. Although she had never liked Draco, it pained her to see anyone suffer. Madame Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen, realised Hermione. It was up to her to help Malfoy.

Tentatively she stood and moved towards his bed. Seeing her, he tensed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Get away from me, you Mudblood!" he croaked feebly. "Get away!" Hermione didn't move. Judging by the tremor and panicked tone of his voice, he really was terrified of something. But what, wondered Hermione. Surely he did not feel threatened by her? She was just a teenager, like himself, who he had often bullied for being a Muggle-born witch.

Suddenly he screamed, a terrible shriek of purest agony which echoed through the large dormitory that was the hospital wing, one pale thin hand clutching his chest. Was this one of what Ron had often called his attention-seeking tantrums, wondered Hermione, then discarded the idea. She could see the agony and terror in his brimming eyes. He was genuinely in pain and needed help. Still Madame Pomfrey did not appear. Why didn't she come, wondered Hermione. She couldn't believe the nurse was unable to hear the cry still reverberating off the walls. Clearly, she thought, it was up to her to deal with the situation.

"I'm here to help you," she told him, her voice gentle but firm. Reacting to the insult he had thrown at her, disgusting as it was, would achieve nothing. If Malfoy was just saying it to aggravate her, she would only give him a savage pleasure she had no intention of giving anyone. If, however, he was just frightened and in too much pain to think straight, she might scare or anger him, which might worsen his condition.

She looked at him again. There were dark shadows under his eyes. He was clearly tired. If he had been in as much pain before as he was now, he must have slept very badly, if at all. Hermione glanced towards Madame Pomfrey's office once more, panic rising in her chest. She didn't know very much about medicine or first aid. She shouldn't have to deal with this, she thought. She was a student, little more than a child. This was Madame Pomfrey's responsibility. She was being very irresponsible to Malfoy.

A surge of guilt and fear racked her dazed mind. How dare she even think of criticising a member of staff! How dare she! If anyone found out, she would be severely punished. Suppressing a shudder as she remembered the fates of other students who had dared to speak against the teachers, she returned her gaze to the boy on the bed. He was even weaker than before and still howling in agony.

For several moments, Hermione continued to talk to him, trying to find out what was wrong, but his pain seemed to render him incapable of coherent speech. Perhaps, she thought, if she lessened his pain, he might be able to tell her what ailed him. Besides, this act of kindness might make him see that she meant him no harm. Maybe her example would even lead him to start helping others.

Speaking softly, so that she did not disturb the other patients, Hermione muttered a spell Professor Lupin had taught her which alleviated mild pain. He had also taught her a charm to relieve severe pain, but she decided not to use it. After all, according to her parents, both of whom were dentists, pain was a signal from the body that something was wrong and should not be ignored. By removing some, but not all of Malfoy's pain, Hermione hoped, she would be able to discover the problem and solve it.

Malfoy relaxed slightly, his eyes fixed suspiciously on Hermione. He tried to sit up, becoming entangled in his blankets and the hangings around his bed and let out another shriek as the pain returned. Hermione hastily repeated the spell. "Where does it hurt, Malfoy?" she asked solicitously. "My chest hurts," croaked Draco, his voice hoarse from shrieking.

Hermione took another step forward. "Would you mind if I..." she began, but was cut off by Madame Pomfrey, who bustled over, her wand raised, looking furious. Malfoy dived under the bedclothes, looking nothing short of terrified. The matron thrust Hermione aside, telling her sharply to get back to Gryffindor Tower, before drawing back the blankets and pointing her wand at Malfoy's pounding heart. There was a flash of orange light, then Malfoy lay motionless on the bed, apparently no longer breathing. Hermione gazed at him for several moments, tears filling her eyes, then slowly turned and walked away, a cold, deep shame rising in her chest, like icy water in the lungs of someone drowning. She had failed to help Malfoy and in doing so failed Harry. Lowering her head, she trudged back to the library. She needed to be alone.

As she went, other students tried to talk to her, but she walked on, barely hearing what they were saying. Ron ran towards her in a corridor crowded with Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students and attempted to kiss her. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol. Hermione pushed him away, not caring if she appeared rude. She had no time for his childish antics now. Her heart was thumping with anger, sadness and worry.

Malfoy had been in agony. Although he had always been an enemy to her and Harry, she believed, as Harry did, that it was best to help those in need and try to limit the number of enemies they had. It had been up to her to help him, but she had not. He might be dead now and it was all her fault. Eventually, she reached the safety of the library, but was too upset to read.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5. A Black Situation

Cornelius Fudge continued to bluster. Sirius sighed and stretched his cramped legs, wishing the meeting would be over soon. He must have been here for at least three hours now, he thought irritably, ignoring the hunger which had suddenly risen in his stomach. With a sigh, he pulled a rather hard boot belonging to Kingsley Shacklebolt from under him, then stretched out and lay down. It would be better for him and everyone else if he just went to sleep now. If he had to listen to Cornelius Oswald Fudge again, he would end up doing something reckless and regretting it later.

As he lay staring at the ceiling of the cupboard in which his father had kept his huge collection of boots, Sirius smiled sourly hearing Albus Dumbledore chuckle at the stupidity of the Minister for Magic. He longed to watch the man suffer for everything he had done to the vulnerable people he was supposed to be protecting. Images of what would become of the Minister when he encountered the various security spells his parents had placed around the house flashed before his eyes. "Bring it on!" he thought savagely, then stopped himself. If anyone knew what he was thinking, the consequences would be terrible, for him and for Harry. Hastily he tried to recall the parting words of his cousin before she had vanished. "Anger is a poison which will stop your heart faster than any spell or potion. Avoid it or it will kill you and everything you hold dear." He must control his rising temper. He must think of something else, quickly.

His mind travelled back to Harry, his beloved godson. How was he, he wondered. Where was he? Sirius hoped this year at Hogwarts was proving to be better than the last. A slight grin tugged at his exhausted facial muscles as it occurred to him that he was relying on almost the same advice as he had given Harry. Now, as he lay in a shoe cupboard, waiting for the latest meeting between Dumbledore's supporters, who called themselves the Order of the Phoenix, and the Ministry of Magic to finish, he fully appreciated how hard it must have been for Harry to follow that instruction. If he knew there was a war on, he would be desperate to do his bit to help.

At last he heard the door being unlocked and his stomach clenched with dull dread. Now he would have to face another day of imprisonment and pain. He thought almost longingly of Azkaban. At least the Dementors had been easy to deal with because he had been able to resist their power simply by remembering he was innocent. This was worse, far worse.

A dark shape stood in the doorway. Sirius squinted at it, wishing he had his wand. He noticed that the mysterious person was very well-dressed, considering there was a war on. Beads and bangles glittered at the figure's wrists and throat and its body was very thin, but elegant. It must be a woman, he realised. It was too thin to be Professor McGonagal or Professor Sinstra.

The faint smell of herbs exuded from her. Realising it was Professor Trelawney, Sirius bit his lip and repressed a shiver as memories he had blocked from his mind since escaping Azkaban threatened to engulf him. He must not let her see his fear. If he did, she would certainly use it against him.

"Good afternoon Black," began Professor Trelawney in her usual mystical tones. Sirius merely nodded in acknowledgement. He was not about to let himself be drawn into conversation with her. The last time he had done that... He shook himself. He must not think about that. He was older now and wiser, wasn't he?

Sirius shifted on the bed. How long had he slept for, he wondered. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he gazed around the dark room, lit by a crimson lamp. Long red curtains covered the windows, so he could not see whether or not it was still daytime. As he tried to sit up, he realised he was still drowsy. Slowly his father's warnings about accepting drinks from strangers came back to him in his dazed state and he sighed. He should not have accepted the offer of a cup of tea earlier that day. His mother was right, he thought grimly. He was a goner.

The smell of herbs and some sort of heavy perfume mingled in the air, combining with the heat from the fire. Underneath him, the silk sheets felt tantalisingly soft after the hard, bare boards he had lain on in Azkaban and the pavements he had slept on since his escape. He longed to go back to sleep, but something stopped him. He had to leave this place and find his teacher, friend and master. Where was the woman who had led him here? She had to be here somewhere.

"Sirius?" The soft voice of the woman who had led him here floated to his ears, seeming to come from the flames as they danced, enthralling him, entrancing him. "I am here," he answered, hardly aware that he was speaking. In his ears, he heard the roar of the fire, like the lion of Gryffindor, which had devoured so many defenceless creatures, the drumming of his own heart and her thin voice calling gently. "Sirius?"

A hand began stroking his hair. Embarrassment filled him as he tried to remember how long it had been since he had washed his long matted hair. What must this woman think of him? He raised his eyes to her face, wanting to apologise for the state he was in, but unable to muster the energy to speak.

"Be still," intoned the silky voice from above him. "Clear your mind. Here, in this secret room, my inner sanctum, you are safe. I am a seer, but not a judge." The hand crept lower and began rubbing his neck and shoulders. Feeling his strength leave him, he stopped trying to sit up and stared, unseeing, at the face of the mysterious woman.

After several moments, the massaging stopped. Sirius heard a slight rustle of cloth, then felt someone else on the mattress. Opening his eyes, which he had closed after she had told him to clear his mind, he saw her at last. She was tall and very thin with enormous dark eyes, which were magnified to at least twice their normal size. Numerous beads hung around her neck and her arms were encrusted with bracelets and amulets. A vast number of rings glittered on her fingers. Her long black hair flowed like a veil down her back and over one side of her face, enhancing, Sirius thought, the mysterious air about her.

"Sybil?" he murmured hoarsely. He felt her move until she was lying beside him. "You are ready now?" she asked, taking his hand in hers. Sirius sighed, nodded and let his face relax into a smile. He loved her voice. It was so soothing, yet so full of mysterious power that to hear it sent shivers down his spine.

He was sure she smiled, though he could not see her face in the darkness. Turning his hand so that his palm faced upwards, she began tracing the lines with a spindly finger. Sirius waited, feeling her warm breath, which smelled of coriander and turmeric, ruffling the stubble on his cheek gently. His own breath caught in his throat. He longed for her words, but did not dare to break the silence, which seemed to vibrate with a magic far stronger than anything ever taught at Hogwarts.

Sirius wrenched himself back to reality. That was in the past, where it belonged, to be learned from and forgotten. This woman standing before him was nothing to him. She was an enemy of his teacher, of true justice and those who fought for it. He could see her lips moving, but never heard her words. As she paused and reached out to him, he recoiled, his feelings shooting out at her in one terse word. "Traitor!"

Professor Trelawney smiled. "If I am a traitor, then what are you?" she retorted calmly. "Considering we took you in and sheltered you after your very fortunate escape from Azkaban, your siding with our enemies makes you more of a traitor than I." She paused and pulled out her wand. "Choose your next words carefully," she said silkily. "Or just as you have felt my lips upon yours, you will one day feel the mouthparts of a Dementor upon them." Sirius shivered, remembering the icy touch of a Dementor's hands prising his slowly, almost lovingly, away from his mouth, which was clamped shut.

A searing pain through one of the scars on his back from his beatings in Azkaban jolted him back to the present. "Answer me," his betrayer was saying, her wand raised. "Will you renounce your allegiance to our enemies and fight for us? Consider your response carefully, Black. I do not wish to hurt you." Sirius glared at her. He would not allow himself to be led astray by her again. He would not abandon his master, family and friends. He would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how much she was hurting him.

"I won't fight for those who deny justice to the innocent," he retorted, using the quiet, calm tone of voice which had often frightened the Dementors. He kept his expression neutral as he spoke, trying to ignore the burning sensation spreading throughout his body. As the words left his lips, the pain intensified. He clenched his jaw, determined not to cry out or in any way let her know he was in pain.

Professor Trelawney sighed softly. "Why do you go on like this?" she breathed. "You are a brave, intelligent man. You are destined to do great things. I see this within you. Why then do you waste your energy pitting yourself against forces you cannot hope to overcome? Are you ashamed of your past? Your heritage? Your previous allegiance and actions? Clear your mind. Let go of this guilt. We will not judge you. Our leader requires unquestioning loyalty and obedience, but not an untainted ancestry. Clear your mind. Give up these absurd notions and let us begin afresh." Her eyes were fixed on his as she stepped towards him, entrancing him, enticing him.

Sirius averted his eyes from hers. "Don't listen," he told himself firmly as the invisible chains binding him in place rubbed painfully against his sore and bleeding wrists, adding to the pain in the rest of his body. After all, these were his enemies, hypocrites, advocates for everything he fought against. He must not be deceived by their lies.

"I won't," he said as clearly as he could in his agony and hunger-induced weakness. "I've seen what you've done. I know what you're planning. Your words won't convince me. You've lied to me and the rest of the wizarding world for long enough." He stared into her enlarged eyes, waiting. In a few moments, he was sure, she would crack. After all, one encounter with Dolores Jane Umbridge had cracked her facade of confidence and resulted in her teaching career coming to a sudden end. Her expression was unfathomable. Sirius gritted his teeth and waited. If he couldn't watch Cornelius Fudge getting his comeuppance, to see the woman who had betrayed him crumble would be almost as good. Any minute now, he told himself, she would begin to tremble with terror or fury. Then her guard would drop. Perhaps she would attack him, but it would not matter. He could escape again, as he had before. She did not know about his Animagus transformation. Nor did her master, as far as he knew. Then, once he was out if this miserable place, he could rejoin his teacher and fight for peace. All he had to do was wait...

The silence was shorter than he had expected. When Trelawney spoke again, her voice was as calm and ethereal as ever. This was a bad omen, thought Sirius, who had hoped she would be speechless. Far worse, however, were the words she eventually said. Those words would haunt Sirius Black until his dying day, something which the memories the Dementors had forced him to recall had never done.

"A pity you refused my offer," she breathed, taking one of his hands in hers. "I was about to give you a message concerning your godson, but if you would prefer not to know..." "What about Harry?" Sirius blurted out tensely. Professor Trelawney regarded him for several moments with a veiled expression. Then, her tone as serene as ever, she remarked, "You surprise me, Black. I thought your parents raised you to have better manners than this. Still, I cannot expect too much, what with their being..." "Just tell me where Harry is!" snarled Sirius, shaking slightly with anger and fear. Hastily, he tried to rein in his rising temper. He must exercise better self-control, he silently berated himself, thinking of his master. He must not let Trelawney manipulate him like this.

Running footsteps pounding down the hall made Trelawney suddenly turn, quickly dragging him back into the cupboard and locking the door behind her. Sirius heard her running into the hallway and a man's voice asking, "Is the Suzerain available?" "He is busy at the moment," replied Trelawney smoothly. The man began blustering almost as loudly as Cornelius Fudge and Sirius sighed with dread, hearing his tormentor retrace her footsteps to where she had left him.

As she hauled him out of the dingy and smelly cupboard, Sirius wrenched at his restraints, wanting to seize her in a vice-like grip, wrest his wand from her and incapacitate her as she had incapacitated him until she told him everything she knew concerning Harry. His struggling soon exhausted him and he collapsed at her feet, breathing heavily. Seeing a cruel smile touch her lips, he felt a surge of hatred towards this vile woman who had condemned him to the life of pain, fear, imprisonment and loneliness.

"Oh, Sirius," she breathed, reaching down and stroking his hair. "Who would have thought, unless possessed of the Inner Eye, that a man as mighty as you would fall so easily?" Sirius repressed a shudder as she gently caressed his cheek. "Just tell me where Harry is!" he snapped, his heart pounding. How could he have fallen in love with her, he silently raged at himself. She was his enemy, against everything he believed in, everything he worked for, stood for and valued. She had betrayed him and many others who, like himself, had trusted her. Seeing a smile spread slowly over her lips, he realised with dread that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"I am sorry," she murmured, as though she really were sorry for everything he had suffered. "I live alone, so I cannot know what it is not to see your godson growing up." She paused here and laid a hand on his. Sirius tensed. "Don't lie!" he snarled. "Just tell me where Harry is or I'll..." "Such harsh, wild words!" Trelawney sighed. "I would not want to see you condemned to life in Azkaban, untameable and reckless as you are. Think what it would do to Harry! Has he not suffered enough?"

Sirius swallowed hard. He was trapped now. "Leave Harry out of this!" he wanted to say, but it would be worse than useless. He did not want to give her any more power over him and saying that would only show her what he was sure she already knew; that she had won. He must not do or say anything which might anger her, he told himself urgently. For Harry's sake, he must do as she wished, or at least appear to. He tried to avoid her gaze, so that she would not see his feelings in his eyes, but could not help glimpsing her smile of satisfaction. She knew.

"What exactly do you want from me?" he asked, playing for time. "You've got the Ministry on your side. I can't really do much to help you, as they've put a thousand-Galleon price on my head." Professor Trelawney smiled in the serene way Sirius knew so well, shaking her beautiful head as she did. "The Ministry are but tools, instruments to aid us in our cause," she laughed dismissively. "Our leader has only to give the order and all charges against you will be dropped. Then you can go out as and when you please. All we require is a simple assurance of your loyalty. Then you will be free and Harry will be safe."

She paused, her eyes on him. Sirius watched her face carefully, thinking quickly. He longed to see Harry safe and happy. He had not been able to fulfil his promise to Lily as Harry's godfather, having spent the best part of fifteen years in Azkaban for a crime he had not committed. Fond as he was of the Weasleys, it was not easy for him to watch Molly and Arthur acting as though Harry were their son. They were not in any way related to him. Anyway, they were in no way able to help Harry now, whereas he had a golden opportunity right now. All he had to do was promise to help the Order.

As he opened his mouth to make the promise which would change his and many others' lives, he stopped. The Order of the Phoenix had deceived him many times, subjected him to all manner of pain and incarcerated him in his parents' house. To make matters even worse, Dumbledore, who was hailed by many as the greatest wizard in the world and the finest headmaster Hogwarts had ever had, was doing nothing to stop the war which had torn wizardkind apart for centuries. There were rumours that some students at Hogwarts had been conscripted to fight in the war. Sirius hoped this wasn't true. Surely, he thought, even the Order of the Phoenix, questionable as their morals were, would never allow such a terrible thing to happen. They had, after all, looked him from Azkaban.

Then he remembered what Dumbledore had said that morning upon hearing that several members of the Swift Brigade, including Sergeant Diggory, Corporal Abbott and Captain Clearwater had been killed in battle. "Their deaths were a tragic accident, but sometimes, for the greater good, sacrifices must be made." Sirius was still shocked by these words. How could anyone with any knowledge of what was happening throughout the wizarding world dismiss those people's deaths in Tewksbury High Street as an accident? How could a man who claimed to be fighting for justice say that the deaths of so many people were for the greater good? If that was the extent to which he cared about his fellow wizards, Sirius was not going to side with him.

So he remained silent. In the darkness, he saw Trelawney's eyes glitter with gleeful anticipation, though her expression remained completely calm. "I suppose it is best that you do not know where the boy is," she shrugged after several moments. "After all," she added with another sadistic smile. "You will have plenty of love in your life. The Dementors will be so pleased to see you. Pleased enough to give you a little kiss, I dare say." Then, still smiling, she left the room, locking the door behind her. Sirius watched her go, his heart sinking with despair. He had failed Harry, he thought miserably. He must be stronger than this! Even his brother Regulus had been braver than this! Reaching out to his master with his mind, he let his feelings drift away in one thought. Forgive me, Master.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6. Fear And Rage

Dolores slammed down her pink flamingo feather quill in frustration. One day, she thought grimly, the Ministry of Magic would be the death of her, them and their stupid, arrogant leader Cornelius Oswald Fudge! To add insult to injury, she was forced to serve him every day, pandering to his every selfish, paranoid, ill-judged whim! Each evening, as she left her office, she would console herself with fantasies of getting revenge on the Minister of Magic.

Hastily she suppressed her raging thoughts. She must be more self-disciplined, she berated herself silently. Fudge's fear of his position being usurped had led him to press his underlings to invent more and more ways to access other people's thoughts, and their money, but that was beside the point. If she was not careful, he might discover her plots, where her loyalty truly lay and a lot of other things which would lead her to a lifetime sentence in Azkaban, as surely as the rain would pour down on the world above the Ministry. It was not that she feared Azkaban. She had always enjoyed a good relationship with the Dementors, having been able to communicate with them since the age of two. They were gentle creatures, who were only doing what was necessary for their survival. No, what frightened her about going to Azkaban was the knowledge that she would be powerless to help her friends and teacher, who would be left without inside information, gold or any other means of overcoming what Fudge and, in some cases, nature, threw at them.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she thought about how she had taught Dumbledore's little puppet a lesson, whilst avenging those she cared about. Admittedly, it had been a bit cruel of her to set them on him, knowing how much they hated being used as weapons, but they had soon forgiven her, understanding in their own way that it had been for their benefit as well as many others'. If only Dumbledore had not turned up at his trial and overturned the sentence he should have received, they might be free now to do as they pleased, she reflected regretfully, turning her attention back to her paperwork.

Just then, the enchanted clock which stood in the corridor outside her office began to chime, playing the same silly little tune each time. Dolores counted the chimes, wanting to block her ears against the sound which made her head pound with tired irritation, but feeling too listless to bother. All she wanted now was to get out of the stuffy office and go home.

One. Her mind wandered to her family. Her parents were dead. Her father, a busy Auror, had been savaged by a werewolf while out investigating a report of Dark Magic in a Muggle-inhabited area. From what her mother had told her when she was old enough to understand, the werewolf had leapt at him from the shadows, knocking him to the ground. The impact of the fall had snapped his wand and left him with a laceration to the head. The beast had then proceeded to mutilate every part of his body it could reach, biting, scratching, kicking and pummelling him. Eventually, despite the blood streaming from his head, he had managed to get away from his attacker and run to a Muggle hospital, being unable to get to St Mungo's or contact any witch or wizard. By the time he had reached the hospital, though, it had already been too late and he had died of his wounds.

Her mother had been distraught over his death and had spent ever-increasing amounts of time by or in a local lake, which had been her and her husband's favourite meeting-place before their marriage. One evening, as she had been swimming in the lake, a group of merpeople, who had moved into it without her noticing, had swum stealthily towards her in the dark water and begun pulling her under. At first she had not realised what was happening, being too tired and miserable to notice their scaly hands snaking around her ankles and slowly dragging her further down into the depths below. Dolores had called out frantically to her, trying in vain to bring her out of her stupor so that she could save herself.

After several attempts, however, it had become apparent that she could not hear her daughter's terrified calls. Dolores had dithered desperately on the muddy ground, wishing she could swim, wishing she was braver and wishing with all her heart that she could somehow save her mother. As a figure in black robes had passed by, she had called to the stranger for help. Before she had managed to get the mysterious person's attention, her pleas had been cut off as a merman had seized her by her ankle and jerked it sharply, causing her to hit the ground, wrists first, with an unpleasant crunch. She had struggled to get to her feet, but the merman had been too strong. Rising halfway out of the water, he had lain on her back, one of his hands over her mouth. Dolores had shaken her head vigorously, trying to escape his grasp as much as the overpowering stench of dead fish. The merman had chuckled chillingly and rolled off her back, his hand still over her lips to stop her from crying out. She had continued fighting him as he had uttered a series of short shrieks in a kind of gloating song, then pulled her around to face the lake.

All too soon, her energy had run out. With a derisive screech, her captor had removed his hand from her mouth before forcing her head beneath the murky greenish-brown water as he himself had reentered it. Dolores had thrashed wildly, her lungs burning for want of air, yearning to get away from him and the deep, dark lake, but it was no use.

"Humans are so cute when they are little!" he had crooned, one hand stroking her hair as he held her with his other arm. "Only when they get older do they become a threat. Now watch and learn, little one." Dolores had stopped trying to escape, astounded and terrified by his strength. She had looked on helplessly as her mother had been dragged down, into the darkness beneath, her heart sinking with her as she was pinned to the merman's side, limp and useless, not doing anything to rescue her or save herself.

"This is what happens to those who endanger my people," he had said, his voice deadly calm. "I will spare you, because the slaughter of the young is a terrible crime, but if you do as she and her husband did, to our kind or any other, you will suffer the same." Then he had released her and she had floated to the surface, coughing, spluttering and gasping for breath. As a tall strapping man with a black moustache had lifted her from the lake and Disapparated with her, she had been too overcome with shock to register what was going on. Setting her down, he had murmured a spell so that he could see under the water before shaking his head with a sad sigh. Only days later, when she had been taken to a wizarding orphanage and her mysterious rescuer arrested for what the Ministry called "hostile and abnormal dispositions," had she fully realised what had happened. She was an orphan.

Two. She thought about Hogwarts. She did not have any regrets about her time there as High Inquisitor, Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher or Headmistress. Albus Dumbledore had been, and still was, a very real threat to her comrades, those whom society had shunned and kept downtrodden just because they had been placed in the house of Slytherin as children. It had only been right, she told herself as she gathered her belongings together, that she should extend the hand of friendship to her fellow Slytherins and help them. If only Potter had not tried to interfere, she mused bitterly. It had served him right to be banned from the Quidditch team. May the scar on his right hand be a constant reminder of his and his master's misdeeds!

Three. She smiled grimly at the memory of those long nights, reflecting yet again on the wonderful irony of the punishment she had inflicted on him. "I must not tell lies," she murmured and chuckled softly, thinking of all the lies she had to tell every day for the sake of her friends; pretending to hate them, pretending not to know where they were, sometimes even pretending to set Dementors on them. At least she had an honest reason to do what she did, she reminded herself. At least she was not hiding behind a powerful wizard, following his orders blindly and expecting him to care about her while doing nothing to earn such regard. Soon, she told herself, both Potter and Dumbledore would get their comeuppance.

Four. Dolores shivered as an icy gust of wind blew into the office. Magical Maintenance were going to cause another snowstorm, she thought irritably. Cornelius Fudge must have forgotten to pay them again. Oh, well, she told herself bracingly, if she hurried, she would be able to get home before the usual storm broke out over and among the Ministry staff.

Five. Her throat was burning from lack of hydration, but she knew that those who were seen not working, even for a moment, could lose their jobs. She would have to be careful if she was to continue providing her true friends with the information they needed. With a quickly muttered spell, she conjured a cup of tea and drank it, realising as she did what a foolish and selfish thing she had just done. Because of the laws regarding Slytherins, she, as a former Slytherin student, was only permitted to use one spell a day. This rule had been created by the now deceased Head of Magical Corporations to prevent the Slytherins from being able to rebel against the Ministry's regime and Cornelius Fudge had trained Aurors to keep tabs on the number of spells cast by each man, woman and child in or connected with Slytherin. Now, having used her single spell, she would be unable to help any of her comrades in need.

Six. She cursed the war. All the deadly weapons, threats, propaganda and the ever-increasing numbers of wizards and witches being called, sometimes forced, to fight, even those who were underage, was such a waste of resources that at times she wondered if it was worth fighting and what would become of the wizarding world if it continued. Every day, scores were being kept away from their families, injured and even killed. It had to stop.

Dolores Umbridge sighed deeply and picked up her pink fluffy handbag, into which she had managed to pack everything she would need. The war would never end, she thought sadly as she left the Ministry. Each side would continue to fight as long as they felt their cause to be justified. Therefore, it was her duty to go on doing her part, for justice, for her friends and for the future. With this thought, she was able to smile as she walked home, already preparing herself mentally for tomorrow.


End file.
